I Remember the Feeling
by sleeepyjean
Summary: It's 1976, and the Dolenz, Jones, Boyce & Hart tour is well underway; and with the help of their favorite poisons and a tiny tinge of self-loathing, Davy and Micky have a heart-to-heart for the first time in a very long while. (Warnings: strong language, implied Davy/Micky).


Micky Dolenz always had an issue with being quiet.

Every since he was a child, he was a uniquely vocal person; that's why his parents put him into showbiz at such a young age. "It'll give you somewhere to apply that gift of gab you've got there, kiddo," his father would say, and that's exactly what Micky did. It was used to his advantage; he was silly yet attentive, and he'd always nail his countless auditions simply because he'd talk and talk and talk, winning the casting directors over with his goofy sense of humor and cheery disposition.

It was a blessing.

Well, it was a blessing up until the moment he almost got caught screwing his bandmate in a dingy hotel room in Kansas City.

* * *

The day itself wasn't very out of the ordinary; they had played another low-attendance gig at some amusement park in Missouri, and their performance was less than satisfactory. Micky and Davy had, for reasons beyond their knowledge, teamed up with their former songwriters Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart to engage in a sparsely-dated tour during the summer of 1976, playing lowly state fairs and semi-crowded theme parks instead of the jam-packed stadiums of hysterical teenyboppers they became so accustomed to—which only solidified that they were definitely past their primes as entertainers. It was embarrassing, and they knew it; sure, it was fun, masquerading onstage in custom t-shirts and dancing silly choreographed numbers to hits that hadn't been played on the radio in at least ten years, but at the end of the day, they knew that weren't twenty year old pop stars anymore.

Yet they still drank like frat boys, and each night came with a new poison.

Davy and Micky had retreated to Micky's room that night after leaving the bar; Tommy and Bobby, who had some semi-attractive blondes hanging on their arms, had signaled the two to leave. Seeing as the scene was beginning to die down and the only ladies decent enough to take home had left hours ago, Davy and Micky found it best to catch a cab back to the hotel. One disappointing drive and fifteen dollars later, they realized their "hotel room" was not much of a room at all—nothing like what they had during any of the Monkees' tours—but it had a bed and mini-fridge to keep alcohol in, and that's all that they really could ever need.

The bottle of Jack Daniels Micky had purchased earlier in the day was empty by 2 AM.

The two had spent many a night drunk together before—after all, they'd lived together when the show was just launching, when they were simply two wide-eyed boys thrust into the public eye with hardly any money to split between them to eat—and they would often talk about women and stardom and music and drugs, comparing experiences and laughing until they could barely breathe. And for the first time in ages, they were able to relive this old tradition; they had a chance to _really_ talk, because shouting over loud music in bars with pathetic women straddling their laps in a desperate attempt for some half-assed friction hardly counted for a conversation.

"Y'know, Micky," Davy said, cigarette hanging from his mouth as he reclined on Micky's hotel bed, looking up at the poorly spackled ceiling, "I hate this tour an awful lot. I really do."

Micky giggled, head spinny and vision blurred as they both began to cross the line between conscious and blacked-out. "I mean, so do I."

"No, no," Davy began, turning to Micky, who was sitting up beside him. He was dizzy as he turned, and he propped himself up on his arm, pulling a drag from his cigarette.

"I mean that…I hate it, y'know, I'm fuckin' thirty years old and I'm playing two-bit gigs again, but I like that you're here. Because…because you're my best friend, mate. And it's fun to have you back around again. Y'know, like old times."

"It wasn't that long ago," Micky shrugged, still chuckling to himself.

Davy hit him in the side.

"Ten years, you old bugger. Take a look at a calendar. The sixties are over."

Micky nodded, laying back on the pillow next to Davy and sighing. "Yeah, yeah. I know."

There was a brief silence, disturbed only by the tick-tick-tick of a wall clock somewhere in the distance.

"But it sure was weird for a while."

Davy inadvertently exhaled some smoke into Micky's face, eyes half-shut as he attempted to focus his vision on the man next to him. "Mm?"

Micky coughed, waving the smoke out of his face.

"Fuck, Dave, d'you mind?"

Davy rolled his eyes and stubbed out the cigarette on the nightstand ashtray, forgetting momentarily, in his drunken state, that Micky hated when he smoked.

"What I mean is," Micky began, taking a little extra time to remember how to speak before launching into his sentence, "that…I dunno, it was weird not having you around. Sure, I had Ami and—and Sammy…"

There was another pause: Micky bit his lip and exhaled, and his reluctance to even say her name hit home with Davy, as well; ever since Linda left, Davy barely knew how to function anymore, and he knew Micky was just the same.

But Micky continued.

"…I dunno. I still missed you. Even after all the shit you said when the group split."

Davy exhaled; his memories were hazy, but he did remember being excruciatingly spiteful to Micky, simply because he was exhausted and stressed and unhappy.

"I didn't mean it, mate. You know that. I was just angry."

Micky nodded. And he did know; both he and Davy had begun to drink excessively at that point, knowing that both their marriages and careers were falling apart, and horrible things were said on both sides that they knew the other didn't mean.

Davy spoke again.

"I'm serious. You know how I am"

There was a minute or two of silence; they thought and thought, about how drunk they were, about the tour, about nothing and everything at the same time—and Davy almost nodded off to sleep, still tired from the gig and hammered from hours upon hours of drinking. But then he heard the rustling of bedsheets from beside him, and before he knew it, he felt a weight on top of him, straddling him.

It took him a moment to realize it was Micky.

His eyelids snapped open and almost choked upon seeing the sight of his bandmate, his—his _brother_—pressed so close to his body, heavy-lidded eyes focusing intently on his lips.

"'ey, are you absolutely crazy?"

Micky rolled his eyes. "Shut the fuck up and don't even pretend you haven't thought about it, because I _know_ you have."

And their lips met.

It was awkward and sloppy and they couldn't quite get a grasp on why they were doing it, but there they were, regardless; Davy tasted like alcohol and cigarettes and Micky didn't seem to care, and as more and more barriers began to fall, their sloppy little kisses grew more ardent, more desperate, and they became almost hungry for the other's touch. Their teeth clanked and Micky's tongue felt heavy and strange in Davy's mouth but they were both drunk and lonely and upset at everything and anything, despite their reluctance to talk about it, and everything about this seemed just alright to them.

Their inhibitions were lost, now, and soon their kisses became nips and bites and they were tugging at each others' clothes, urgently ripping buttons off of shirts and clumsily shoving their hands down the other's trousers. It wasn't long before their clothes scattered the floor—sweat beaded at their brows as their drunken limbs moved against each other, and desperate to bring him closer, Davy's hands raked through Micky's hair, tugging at his unruly curls.

And that's when Micky let out an ungodly loud moan.

"Oh, _Davy_."

Neither thought much of it until they heard a bang against the wall.

"Keep it the _fuck_ down!"

Davy's eyelids flew open and his heart seemed to stop dead in his chest—he swallowed, panting, and stared at Micky with an incredulous look in his eyes.

Was Bobby back _already_? But he couldn't be, he simply _couldn't_; after all, it was only—

Davy glanced at the clock, shutting one eye and squinting as he attempted to read the double-image of the clock he was getting.

He exhaled, frustrated; 4 AM arrived so unexpectedly at a time like this.

His voice was low when he spoke, accent thick and words muddled. "Jesus _Christ_, Micky! Are you _daft_?"

Micky rolled his eyes, shaking his head as if to tell Davy that he needn't worry about a thing; he hit his hand against the wall equally as hard, hollering back to Bobby.

"The midget was passed out in my room, had to get him up somehow. Now go the fuck to sleep!"

They heard Bobby laugh from the other room, then a female giggle following shortly thereafter—Bobby had company. He wasn't going to think much of Micky's little mishap. Satisfied, Micky grinned a cheeky little grin in Davy's direction.

Eyes still wide and chest still heaving, Davy shot Micky a dirty look.

"You're gonna get us found out if you don't keep it down."

Micky shook his head and giggled, leaning down to lightly nip at Davy's neck, purpling marks beginning to form, and a soft moan escaped from Davy's lips.

"Well," Micky said, breaking away from Davy's skin only momentarily, "guess I'm gonna have to learn to shut up if we wanna make this a trend."


End file.
